


Yield

by Terminallydepraved



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Freeform, Historical AU, M/M, Slow Burn, Vague, Vampire AU, Vampires, Vignette, bloodsucking, metions of prostitution, opium dens, opium use, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:22:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4525341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terminallydepraved/pseuds/Terminallydepraved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The only way to resist temptation is to yield to it"<br/>-Oscar Wilde</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yield

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone, i got an itch to do another historical au after my dry spell so here you go! there are a lot of oscar wilde references and, like the historian i am, i made everything as accurate as i could. let me know if you have any questions or corrections! enjoy.
> 
> Also, this fic is dedicated to a poor soul, taken from us far too soon. Rest in piece small snake, we mourn your loss and curse the wheels of nana’s car that brought you low.

The night tasted of cold and that particular brand of urgency endemic to the parts of town blessed with the unblessed. Hisoka inhaled deeply and carried on his way with a vigor in his step. He was as it always was, delighted by the ugliness that existed so very near his societally accepted stomping grounds. He spun the cane in his hand idly as he sauntered through the night, grinning up at the ashy sky. There was most certainly no other city like London.

The thinnest sliver of moonlight slipped its way through the clouds overhead and cast the grimy cobblestone into stark relief, painting the street in milky opalescence. It was delightful, bringing the slums into an ethereal light. Hisoka tapped his way down the street, humming in his contentment.

A figure, previously unseen, manifested out of a shadowed alleyway, and Hisoka smiled at the first sign of life to cross his path. He wondered who it could be. It wasn’t common for citizens of means to take these types of routes, especially this late at night. Perhaps it was the slasher he had heard making noise in the headlines, or even a woman of the night seeking to peddle her wares despite the danger. London-born were always of a peculiar ilk, crying havoc in the face of scandal and peril but never doing enough to prevent their own.

As the person walked further onto the street, the moon came out from behind a thin patch of cloud, illuminating them both with its gentle light. It was a young man, small in frame but with a certain confidence in his gait that made it difficult to consider him meek. His clothes were worn but maintained, low quality but not the rags the truly impoverish garbed themselves in; Hisoka pegged him for maybe a laborer. Though the dark played its tricks on those who wished to see what they wanted, Hisoka could tell that his features seemed far more suited to ballrooms than to manual drudgery.

With his long stride, Hisoka quickly caught up with the man, a smile already on his face. Up close, he could see the man’s features clearly in the wane light. He was pleased to see the beauty hadn’t been a trick. The man was striking, his cheekbones high and proud and his eyes immeasurably dark. His skin seemed to glow. Everything about him bespoke regality, spitting at the poverty clothing him.

“Good night,” Hisoka greeted like the gentleman he claimed to be, inclining his head for good measure. His ever-searching artist’s eyes drank in the sight of the man at his side. He knew immediately that he would be seeing those black eyes in the canvas for the foreseeable future.

He received a shy smile in return, a soft reply of the same. It was a start. Hisoka sought for more.

“What a gorgeous night. What could have you out so late?” he asked conversationally, his most charming smile on display. “I hope pleasure and not business.”

The man smiled and shrugged. “Rather both, I think. Though perhaps more the former if I am lucky,” he replied with what Hisoka swore was a wink and a surreptitious glance at his well-dressed figure.

Hisoka was a bit surprised but pleasantly so. He hadn’t been aware there were male prostitutes on this side of town, or that they came this pretty. The East End wasn’t known for its beauty, be it in the architecture or the inhabitants. It was certainly an enticing idea, one Hisoka hardly felt like refusing.

“I can’t imagine it to be safe for someone as lovely as you to be walking these streets at night,” Hisoka offered, looping his arm through that of his companion. What was life without whimsy, he thought as he made his interest known. “Not with all this talk in the papers of some murderer running amok.”

The man smiled, small and demure, and made no move to shake off his arm. If anything, he pressed them closer together, their steps falling in tandem. “I think I can handle myself, Milord. I am anything but defenseless,” he replied, looking up at Hisoka through his eyelashes. “Though your company is most welcome.” The moonlight was devastating along his cheekbones, brightening his dark eyes with new life.

Hisoka found himself utterly smitten, and by someone who must be the most attractive prostitute in the East End no less. One rarely encountered someone of such consummate grace on these dirty streets. It was almost no effort at all to let his hand wander lower.

“How welcome would you say?” he asked, dipping his head low to whisper into a pierced ear. Dark hair was soft against his lips. He could feel the chilly night air in the strands. His hand found its way to a slim hip, and he was pleased to find his palm spanned a truly impressive distance around his waist, his fingertips dragging only slightly on rough cotton.

There was a hum of consideration, a cocking of the stranger’s pretty head that brought the edge of his cheekbone against Hisoka’s mouth. A flirtatious curve found its way upon his lips. “That depends, Milord, on how much you can afford to be,” the man offered, angling their stroll to a nearby alleyway.

From there, Hisoka let his instincts take over. The man was small in his arms and went against the brick wall of some abandoned storefront easily enough. Hisoka pressed his mouth to the dark eyes that had been taunting him, letting his fingers dig deeply into thin thighs. The sound it earned Hisoka was like music in the air, the man a negligible weight as his thighs wrapped around Hisoka’s waist.

“You’re very forward, Milord,” the man whispered, his voice harsh in the shadows of the building. “So full of life, vigor.” His hands traced up Hisoka’s broad shoulders, coming up to rest on his strong neck almost reverently. He pressed his lips to his throat and let Hisoka explore.

Hisoka moaned, pressing him more fully into the wall. “You bring it out, my dear,” he replied with a laugh, supporting his weight with a hand as his other went down to open the fancy fasteners on his own trousers.

Another hum. The man cocked his head as he smiled back. “I almost feel bad doing this to you. You’re quite the gentleman, Milord.”

There wasn’t enough time for Hisoka to register the statement before the man pushed back, strength more than adequate to break the hold Hisoka had on him. He grabbed Hisoka by the lapels, spinning him back into the wall with force enough to hurt. A grunt issued from Hisoka, a somewhat pained sound of surprise, and it was in that moment that the man surged forward. He pinned Hisoka to the wall and sunk his teeth, elongated with eyeteeth as sharp as razors, into his neck.

Hisoka groaned and struggled against the bone-crushing grip holding him in place, but was unable to free himself. His fingers dug into the man’s worn shirt. He laughed a strained laugh into a pierced ear. “This… This is certainly unexpected,” he gasped, his heart pumping harder and pounding out each pull in his ears. “Does this c-cost me as well?”

There was a grunt, the painful pricking of teeth being pulled from an open wound, and the man looked him in the eye with an expression of confusion. He still held Hisoka firm. “Are you getting off on this?” he asked with incredulity, the blood painting his pale lips scarlet.

It was delightful, Hisoka thought, how much it gave him the appearance of a real prostitute. “Are you not? I was under the impression that this was part of the services you offered,” he panted, ignoring the wet trickle of blood down his neck.

A moment passed, and then another before the man sighed, his smile teasing behind the blood. He pressed himself back into Hisoka’s arms, licking the trail running down his throat. “You don’t taste like fear. Excitement, but no fear,” he whispered, letting Hisoka wrap his arms around him. “You taste good.”

Hisoka thrust into a sharp hipbone and groaned. “A name, give me a name, my dear,” Hisoka crooned as he ran his hands along every inch he could reach. Through the moonlight, he could just make out a marking against the pale skin of the man’s forehead. Dark hair obscured it, but it sent curiosity and intrigue down his spine nonetheless.

“Chrollo.” It was just a breath, a teasing nip against his earlobe. The mouth fixed itself back to the sluggishly bleeding wound. “I am Chrollo.”

The coarse cotton of his clothing couldn’t hide the softness of his skin. “Come home with me,” Hisoka begged as he took in the chill that he now realized wasn’t from the night air. “You’re far too interesting to let slip by.”

“I could kill you.”

He laughed and held tighter. “That’s what makes this interesting.”

oOo

Chrollo told himself that it wasn’t going to last. He wasn’t going to get settled or let this capricious painter grow attached to him. He glared impassively at Hisoka as he called out instructions from behind his canvas. Upon their first meeting, he had pegged the redhead as some aristocrat. Perhaps a nobleman’s son looking for an escape from whatever loveless marriage he had found himself forced into. That was how he found many of his victims— them out late wandering the street in search of someone a little less like the woman they left at home, a little more like the boy they stared too long at in prep school. Instead, he found himself in the loft of an artist, a self-proclaimed dilettante and a bachelor of the highest charm.

“Do try to not look as if I’m torturing you, darling,” came the next comment from behind the easel. “As much as I’d love to capture you in the throes of agony, I’ve already begun this one with a tad less in mind. Be a lamb and lighten your disposition.”

Chrollo rolled his eyes. He turned his thoughts to the room instead, taking in the many unnecessary baubles and trappings of a man who lived for his whims and not much besides. The shelves were scattered with interesting little pieces of faraway lands now under the Crown rule. They weren’t all that impressive in Chrollo’s eyes. He had been around far longer, seen far more. He pitied Hisoka’s maids and the time they must spend dusting.

Hisoka sighed and tapped the end of his paint brush to his lips. “Better, though I suppose that isn’t saying much. Why are you vexing me so, Chrollo? You aren’t usually this difficult.” He stared hard at Chrollo and Chrollo stared back, his head cocked.

“Maybe you should be more interesting. Time may not have much bearing on me but I still feel it’s passing,” Chrollo huffed, crossing his arms gently. The new clothing he had been bought was strange after so long of wearing his “pauper’s rags” as Hisoka has so despairingly called them. Everything fit tighter, made his movements stiffer, but he admitted that the effect was altogether pleasing.

The paint brush clattered quietly as it was placed on the easel. Hisoka chuckled a little, moving around to cradle Chrollo’s face in his paint-flecked hand. “Are you feeling neglected, my dear? You only need to ask if you want my attention. No need to act out like this.” He traced his thumb across the sharp cheekbone. A bit of blue probably went with the motion. Hisoka had spent ten minutes telling him how it would contrast beautifully against the bone-china white of his skin before he began this latest work.

Chrollo took his hand by the wrist and squeezed, not hard enough to bruise but enough to let Hisoka feel that he wasn’t a child to be pandered to. If anything, it only made Hisoka smile wider.

He knelt on the cold hardwood floor and rested his free hand on Chrollo’s thigh, his fingers stroking up and down the seams of his tailored slacks. “Are you hungry? Is that what this is?” he asked, tilting his head enough to showcase the line of half-healed marks barely hidden behind his unbuttoned collar. He never made an effort to hide them when he wasn’t out, and like this is was all too easy for Chrollo to smell the blood pounding beneath thin skin.

He turned his head away and grunted a negative. Hisoka leaned in closer and let his hand wander up his chest, skimming over the silk and brocade. “Then what could it be, I wonder?” Voice lilting like a breeze, Hisoka rose and brought their lips together teasingly, breathing hot against Chrollo’s cold mouth.

This was something Chrollo was still trying to get used to, these innocuous touches and kisses that Hisoka handed out like breathing. It had been awhile, years at least, since he had been so close without death on the near horizon. The warmth was enticing though. He pressed into it, letting Hisoka smile against his lips and guide the kiss into something slow, languid. Warm hands cupped his cheeks and Chrollo found his hands against Hisoka’s chest, fingers tightly clenched around the thin, paint spattered fabric.

It took Hisoka to pull away, his pesky need to breathe coming to light. He stroked the planes of Chrollo’s face, smoothing his bangs back from his eyes to smile brightly at whatever it was he saw in them.

“This. This is what I wanted to see,” Hisoka breathed, standing up slowly and folding Chrollo’s reaching hands back into his lap how he had originally been arranged. A few last fussing moments and he returned to his easel, leaving Chrollo behind on his chaise. “You really have no idea just how beautiful you are, do you?”

Chrollo didn’t need to breathe. He didn’t need to be warm, but he found himself suddenly bereft.

No, he didn’t plan to stay here with this painter, living this plush life that he no longer had a right to. But sitting here, a breathless being still gasping for breath, he felt he could pretend. At least for a little while.

oOo

“Don’t fuss, darling. You’ll ruin your makeup,” Hisoka chastised, snatching Chrollo’s white gloved hand before he could smear the rouge on his cheeks. He pressed a kiss to the hand he held, ever so dainty in the white satin, and rested it on Chrollo’s thigh.

Chrollo frowned, swirling the wine he couldn’t drink in the glass he hadn’t wanted. “Then maybe we shouldn’t have used makeup.” The tinkling of glasses and conversation hid their words from prying ears but it made him anxious regardless. It had been awhile since he had been in such a bright public place. So long in fact that he couldn’t recall when had been the last.

Hisoka chuckled and sipped his own glass. “Your complexion doesn’t quite allow for much else, I’m afraid. It’s fortunate enough that my circles keep such late hours, else I’d become a social pariah keeping to yours.” He made it a point to skim his foot against Chrollo’s under the table, an innocent brush that he probably hoped would put Chrollo more at ease. “You look lovely. Don’t fret.”

“I’m not fretting. This place is boring.”

He drained the glass and swapped his empty one for Chrollo’s full . “It usually is. I never much cared for these things, but one must show one’s face in so-called civilized company else one be labeled a recluse,” he admitted, sipping the dark Burgundy. “Besides, it will pick up soon. Everyone was ever so excited to meet my latest muse. I’m certain you’ll be the star of the evening.”

The idea didn’t appeal in the slightest, but Chrollo was willing to see how the other half lived, if only just for an evening. He looked around at the massive parlor, taking in the decadence and the trappings of excess that could feed a hundred families for a fortnight. Hisoka had informed him in a conspiratory whisper that this acquaintance had a toilet seat of pure gold, a live tortoise with a jewel encrusted shell. It was disgusting in all honesty, but the thought of such wealth within arm’s reach left a wonderfully addictive taste in Chrollo’s mouth.

True to his word, as the alcohol flowed and the guests milled, the evening did indeed pick up. He found himself paraded around on Hisoka’s arm, introduced only as his “beautiful muse.” From the conversations he gathered that Hisoka found them few and far between, never having a model sit for more than one portrait if even that. It was an object of gossip, the stream of paintings Hisoka had been producing with the same subject.

That, sadly, was where the evening met its limit on entertainment. The people he met were vapid and empty, and he could see that Hisoka felt the same with every smile he threw up as they made their way around the room. It was easy to read and Chrollo, who had long lost his novelty, had decided to make his own fun while Hisoka played his part.

He had just slipped a hand down the pocket of a snooty musician, some pianist of little talent and, if Hisoka was to be believed, rather questionable sexual proclivities, when Hisoka snatched his wrist for the second time that night. The mark turned and Chrollo was forced to smile, playing it off as the wine getting to his head enough that he had tripped.

The man stumbled off easily enough, but Chrollo was fuming. He glared up at Hisoka and was met with a bright smile, no hint of reproach in his golden eyes.

“Darling, I’m the last one to tell you to not entertain yourself, but do try to be more discreet,” Hisoka asked, guiding them away from the masses. “I may detest the majority of these people, but Lord Hill does have the best vintage in the city, and I’d hate ever so much to lose that.”

Chrollo raised a brow and pulled his wrist away. “I’m offended that you think I would ever get caught. I’ve been doing this for longer than you’ve been alive, Hisoka.” He pulled a shiny ring from his pocket and presented it to Hisoka as proof. He had stolen it off Hisoka during the exchange, the artist none the wiser.

If he expected anger or disbelief, he didn’t get it. Hisoka laughed, and it was the first time the entire evening that it had reached his eyes. He wrapped an arm around Chrollo’s thin waist. It was the most they could get away with, even in this company. Chrollo leaned into it and returned the smile.

Hours later, when the night had reached its rosy end and they were returning home, Chrollo stopped Hisoka with a tug of their linked arms. With a flick and some blatant showmanship, he pulled a pocket watch, beautifully crafted and engraved with vines, moons, and foxes from somewhere behind his back.

Hisoka watched, eyes wide, and looked at the trinket with obvious interest. It was a gorgeous piece, something that would catch his eye in a storefront easily. “Whose is that?” he asked, no hint of reproach in his voice, only curiosity. He probably couldn’t imagine any of that crowd having such exquisite taste.

“Does it matter?” Chrollo replied, fastening the chain to Hisoka’s waistcoat and pressing the cold metal into his hand. “It’s yours now.”

His cold hands were enveloped in Hisoka’s, and for a moment Chrollo thought that these outings could have a certain charm to them. Maybe.

oOo

Hisoka was reading when Chrollo clattered through the window, his clothes tattered and his face and hands covered in blood. He almost stood. He almost went to pull the man into his arms, but the look on Chrollo's pale face had him hesitate.

Chrollo’s dark eyes, usually so deep and dizzying, were animalistic. There was no trace of his usual introspective wit, no sign of the serpent’s tongue hiding behind Mona Lisa smiles.

“I take it you fed?” Hisoka posed, his book lying open in his lap like a display of his nonchalance. “Did you kill them?”

He didn’t expect a reply and he didn’t get one. Chrollo stood there near the window and breathed through his mouth. Hisoka knew he didn’t need to breathe. He knew he was tasting the air. It was cute, this feral vision of death covered in the gory remains of some poor unfortunate’s soul.

With a quiet snap, his book was closed and Hisoka crooked his finger, beckoning Chrollo to him. He came immediately, no biting comment about how he wasn’t a dog, nothing in him but animalistic instinct and a willingness to be ordered.

Chrollo stood in front of him, his torn knees flush with Hisoka’s, and Hisoka pulled him easily onto his lap. “Just look at you,” Hisoka breathed reverently, taking in the cold fire burning in the dark of Chrollo’s eyes. “Did they even scream? How could they with such an angel tearing them from this mortal coil?” His hands roved Chrollo’s body and urged chilled hands to do the same.

Bloodied hands painted Hisoka’s chest, tearing through the thin shirt with ease. Chrollo growled somewhere deep in his chest. Hisoka shushed him, rolling his hips when Chrollo began to shift.

“I want to paint you like this. Capture this side of you,” Hisoka decided, reaching for an errant sketch pad from the desk behind him. “Can you sit for me, darling? I’ll give you a treat if you behave.”

Chrollo couldn’t answer and Hisoka knew not to expect one to come. He spun his chair to face the desk and lifted Chrollo enough to lay him out on the top, his legs spread lewdly and his expression still so hungry. His eyeteeth were long, deadly sharp. Hisoka was almost tempted to run his tongue over them to see if he could taste the last of the life still clinging to his muse’s lips.

“Just like that, Chrollo,” he eased, perching on a corner of the desk to sketch him from above, like a god surveying a fallen angel. Hisoka tilted his head, arranged Chrollo’s bloody-covered hands near his face, and began to sketch. He had no illusions that his model would sit for long. There would be no second chances with this, and he worked as fast as he could to capture the important details.

Hisoka chalked it up to habit that Chrollo sat still as long as he did, especially in this state. He had just gotten around to tracing out the mouth, slightly open and just the smallest hint of a pink tongue tasting the air, when Chrollo made a noise. It was pained, a keen more than anything, and Hisoka was so hard he was surprised he was still holding his pencil properly. A few more pencil strokes and he called it done, throwing down the book and the pencil to straddle Chrollo’s prone form.

There was more in Chrollo’s eyes now, the wait having brought him something more than just base instinct, and he dug into Hisoka’s hips. His nails cut deep with the strength of his grip, and Hisoka groaned. The scent of blood hit the air and that was it.

Within a second Hisoka found himself laid out on the floor with Chrollo pinning him down. The telltale pain of fangs descended into his throat, Chrollo’s iron grip holding his shoulders to the hardwood. Hisoka found himself completely at the mercy of the pretty beast upon his lap.

“Oh, Chrollo, please,” Hisoka begged, throwing a muscled thigh over Chrollo’s hips to grind against him. His hands found the rips in the tattered clothing and tore through it like paper, taking in every inch of chilly skin they could get.

Chrollo consumed with abandon, drinking deep and heavy from his neck. His cold hands held Hisoka by the hair and kept him in place, eyes hazy but focused on the flush as it slowly faded to bloodless white. Hisoka’s moans grew louder and more desperate. Chrollo was taking more than he’d ever taken before in one sitting.

There was no fear though, no thought that Chrollo would ever take more than Hisoka could give. That was why he liked him, Chrollo had told him. No fear to sour the taste. Only adrenaline and endorphins that made it sweeter. Hisoka thrust against a sharp hip and came with Chrollo’s name on his lips. A moment later and Chrollo pulled off, licking up the mess he had made of Hisoka’s neck.

Chrollo met his eyes, his gaze finally somewhat returned to normal. Red painted his lips and Hisoka grinned, bringing a lazy hand up to smear the blood across his cheek. “Just like when we met. Such a pretty doll I found that day,” he managed, his voice wrecked from it all.

He pressed his lips to Chrollo’s and licked the blood from them, delighted to find it still warm. The cool mouth opened to allow him inside. Hisoka shivered. He could taste himself on Chrollo’s tongue.

“Did I take too much?” Chrollo finally asked after they had winded down. His voice was quiet and roughed like he had been peddling his wares the way he played while out on the streets. Cradled against Hisoka’s chest, Hisoka could barely hear him over the slow thrum of his heart beating between his ear.

Hisoka pressed a kiss to his head. “I’m still talking, so obviously you didn’t take enough,” came the witty reply, slipping past his lips as easily as anything.

For a few heartbeats, there was nothing but silence. Weighty silence. Chrollo shivered a little, and Hisoka blinked, knowing he couldn’t feel the cold. But before he could ask, before he could worry, he heard it— a laugh. was quiet and shaky, but unmistakably a laugh. Hisoka’s eyes widened. He tilted Chrollo’s chin up to look him in the eye.

“That’s the first time you’ve laughed in front of me.”

Chrollo frowned. He furrowed his brow as he thought back, and then colored with the stolen blood when he realized it was. It must have been the first laugh he had in months. Years maybe.

He chuckled again, burying his face in Hisoka’s neck.

“I suppose it was.”

oOo

Memories didn’t always have a place to rest when a person had lived as long as Chrollo.

The years didn’t just pile up, the memories alongside them like personal belongings gathering in a home. They faded away, hidden in the dark corners and recesses, lying in wait for someone to stumble upon them at the worst times. Chrollo didn’t enjoy thinking back, but when he did deign to walk the shadowy corridors of his mind, he always feared getting lost.

He had been born to some family countless decades ago, long before the light of industry ever thought to grace the earth. They were travelers, wanderers in a caravan of those without a heritage or country to call their homeland. At night he would sometimes hear stories in a female voice, the words long lost but the tone still carrying with it a longing for a home never seen. He didn’t remember much, but he remembered being happy. He remembered being content with his wandering.

If anything from his past life had influenced him, it would be that. Chrollo had been on the move since he had first felt the change in him. All of Europe had probably been under his feet at one time or another, and it was never enough to get him away from the shadows following him.

When he had been young… When he had been alive, it had been a different time. Superstition reigned supreme among those lacking organization or education. Demons inhabited everything, and there were gods and spirits in the most unlikely of places.

Sometimes, when he was alone, and the nights were silent and the wind blew a certain way, he could still feel the pain of the needle against his head. The agony of the mark being pounded into his skin, hands forcing him in place and from the escape he screamed for. It burned between his eyes, and there was little to alleviate the pain when it happened. Not blood, not killing, not sleep. Just the wandering. Only the miles ahead of him seemed to dull the memories. With each step he felt like he got a little bit further away from the memories. Away from the wraiths carving their blessing into his fevered head.

After that moment, that memory of pain, there was whiteness. Chrollo liked it when it was white. It meant that the memories were silent. Manageable.

When Hisoka asked him how he came to be what he was, Chrollo merely shrugged. It was in that whiteness he assumed. He only knew that he had woken up and felt the now familiar itch in his teeth that signaled the thirst.

When Hisoka asked about the cross adorning his forehead, he stared ahead and said nothing.

There was no pain when Hisoka was around, but he didn’t want to risk it.

“Well in any case, we’ll need to cover that up while we’re out,” Hisoka said, pulling a silk scarf from his closet. It was really their closet at this point. Chrollo’s wardrobe had increased considerably since Hisoka began to fund his lifestyle. “Let’s try this.”

Chrollo sat still while Hisoka tied the scarf around his head, situating his hair to fall around it in a way that the gentry wouldn’t find appalling. “Why do we need to bother?” Chrollo knew, but he still liked to hear Hisoka talk. Everything about him was colorful. Warm. He stared down at his pale skin and let Hisoka kiss him.

“While I am quite a fan of controversy and frightening those who think they know better than everyone else,” he began, pressing his lips against Chrollo’s cheeks, eyes, nose, “I don’t care much for the thought of the clergy being called, or of you being branded a heretic. Best to save such excitement for another evening.”

“Are you not…” Chrollo started, stopped, then started again. “Does it not bother you?”

Hisoka looked him in the eyes and laughed, pulling him to his feet. “As an acquaintance of mine says, people are either charming or tedious. Nothing about you is the latter, so you must be the former.”

It wasn’t much reassurance. Not much at all, but it made Chrollo smile, something he found himself doing more and more lately. He let Hisoka help him into his dinner jacket, letting the clever artist fingers button the pearl buttons.

No, Chrollo didn’t have much use for memories or the dusty cobwebs of antiquity behind his eyes. Hisoka saw to him now, and Chrollo felt no loss at all.

oOo

When Hisoka knocked three times on a dingy door, rhythmic and symbolic, Chrollo asked again what they were doing here.

It was evening, late enough to be dark but not so late that they drew attention on the emptying streets. Hisoka only smiled, his hand fluttering to Chrollo’s waist as he guided them through the doorway and past the wizened woman manning the entrance. Her smile was toothless, her face cracked like sunbaked leather.

The hand on Chrollo’s back directed him through the narrow hallway, down wooden steps that creaked in greeting, and into a sea of haze and smoke. Chrollo heard Hisoka inhale deeply behind him, and then exhale shakily. A quick glance back and he found the artist’s golden eyes dilated.

“Darling, go make yourself comfortable while I get myself served,” Hisoka prompted, nudging him towards a far wall where the shapes of pillows could be seen against the floor. His lips grazed Chrollo’s sharp cheek, quick and hidden among the swirling eddies of smoke, and then he was off into the fog.

Chrollo stood there for a moment and contemplated following, but decided in the end to do as he was told. He took stock of the room as he went, the little baubles of light spaced along revealing themselves to be oil lanterns aside mats. Some were occupied, their prostrate occupants coughing or mumbling to invisible demons. Each light marked another user, a candle floating on a river leading to the Styx.

It was blessedly empty in the back, and Chrollo buried himself in the pillows, grateful that they at least appeared clean and free of the piss and alcohol that matted the sawdust scattered across the floorboards. The far end where he had settled himself had the illusion of privacy, situated a bit from the other customers as it was. It was obvious now where he had been taken. Though exaggerated a bit by the conservative gentry, opium dens were still a known phenomenon, so long as one knew where to look.

He had just begun blowing swirls in the smoke when Hisoka found him, a long pipe in one hand and an oil lantern of his own in the other. “This isn’t for a headache, is it?” Chrollo asked, leaning back on his elbows. “I didn’t know you partook of this sort of vice.”

Hisoka laughed and settled himself against Chrollo’s stretched out form, warming his pipe over the open flame. “My dear Chrollo, I haven’t a single redeeming quality to my name. It would do you well to assume the worst and let yourself be pleasantly surprised,” he returned, inhaling deeply and holding it in his lungs. When he exhaled, it was with a moan of pleasure and a visible show of tension leaving his body.

“Is it that good?” Chrollo asked as he cocked his head, letting Hisoka pull him onto his chest. “I’ll admit, I never played with this sort of thing when I was still able to experience the joys of intoxication.” The need to breathe had been lost to him for centuries at this point, and while he rarely considered it, the missed opportunities weren’t lost on him.

Another deep lungful. Hisoka exhaled smoke rings, watching with eyes hazy like the smoke around them. “Imagine closing your eyes after staring straight into the sun.” The drug was already at work in him. Chrollo tangled their legs together, resting more fully on Hisoka’s chest. There was a lethargic grin plastered across the artist’s lips. It was fascinating to observe.

They laid there in silence, time losing all meaning in the haze. The pipe must have been nearly exhausted when Hisoka finally broke away from whatever fever dream he had found himself in to press his lips to Chrollo’s. Chrollo could taste the sweetness against his tongue, the smoke rough against his palate, but it did nothing more than tingle. He may not have ever desired intoxication, but it was moments like these that gave way to curiosity.

Hisoka must have seen a flicker of it in his eyes. With a languid movement, he tangled his fingers in dark hair, bringing Chrollo’s mouth to his throat. “Care for a taste?” he asked, his voice husky and low from the smoke. “What’s life without a little vice?”

Chrollo, lulled by the dark and murky mood, hummed. He laved his tongue against Hisoka’s throat, nipping gently at the skin to get the arms to hold him tighter before he sunk his teeth in. Hisoka made a muted whine and rubbed his erection into Chrollo’s thigh. It had become routine at this point. Just the way these feedings went. The blood flowed hot and heavy in his mouth, familiar and as welcome as the affection.

It was instantaneous— White haze blankeed his vision. Chrollo made a noise of surprise but didn’t tear his mouth away, unable to do anything but drink deeply from the drugged man. The effect was unlike anything he had ever experienced, a white heat seeping into every corner of his being. Soothing but still thrilling, the blood carried with it an unfamiliar taste to it that could only be the opiates.

“Can you feel it, darling?” Hisoka murmured into the pierced ear, his teeth tugging on the turquoise orbs he hadn’t been able to talk Chrollo into exchanging for rubies. “How does it feel?”

It was hell to pull away but Chrollo eventually managed. He licked up every drop that had escaped his lips and held tight to Hisoka’s waistcoat. “Is this…. Is this what the sun feels like?” Every nerve was alight with a tingling vibration. His skin felt hot, alive in a way he hadn’t felt in god knows how long.

The laughter rumbled in Hisoka’s chest, sending more shivers down Chrollo’s spine. “Not quite, but similar. Can you walk? I believe it’s come time for us to return home,” Hisoka crooned, stroking his cheek. Chrollo managed a noise and let Hisoka guide him upright, supporting the majority of his weight. There was a moment where Hisoka fiddled with the cravat at his throat, putting it high to cover the new wounds along with the old.

There had been talk in the artist’s circles about his new fashion statement, how it was rather last season, but the portraits Hisoka had been producing of late had resulted in the haute couture becoming increasingly fond of high neckwear. Chrollo swiped at the glittering pin fixing the silk to Hisoka’s throat, giggling drunkenly when he missed and instead cupped a strong jawline. Hisoka grinned and held him close while leading them from the opium den. The walk home was a blur of streetlights and that particular French perfume that always seemed to cling to Hisoka’s skin. Chrollo couldn’t keep his hands to himself, begging for attention and kisses when they found themselves the sole wanderers on the street.

Hisoka led them back to his loft, only deigning to carry Chrollo up the stairs when he found the railing to be insufficient support. Lips were pressed to his when he was sat on the chaise, Hisoka’s clever fingers unbuttoning his jacket and shirt.

“I want to paint you like this,” Hisoka declared, easing his slender legs from his trousers. “Your expression is intoxicating.” A chest was opened and a silk sheet was removed, wrapped around Chrollo’s pale shoulders in a wave of crimson. “Sit pretty for me darling, and let those feelings overflow.”

Chrollo was reluctant to let Hisoka go to his canvas. He leaned into the kiss when it was offered to him. The silk was almost liquid against his bare skin and he let it console him as he sat, eyes taking in the room as if he had never seen it before. Everything was bright and new, the air vibrating with Hisoka’s eternal energy. He could feel it tingle along his exposed skin, against his tongue.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” Hisoka breathed, his sketch pencil frantic against the canvas as he caught the moment, pinning it like a butterfly to tack board.

His voice was like the silk slipping down his shoulder. Chrollo keened, slumping against the chaise as he lost the fight to stay upright. Hisoka was there in an instant to right him, raining down more kisses to his cheeks, his chin.

“Try to stay up,” Hisoka chided gently, tugging the silk fabric tighter around shaking shoulders. “Just a little bit more.”

“I feel so strange,” Chrollo shook, letting go of the cloth to fix his fingers in Hisoka’s waistcoat. The silk fell and Hisoka righted it again.

He was hushed, kissed, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy the sensation flickering through his body. Hisoka paid him no mind and returned to his pencils, murmuring compliments and encouragement the entire time.

A few minutes passed before Chrollo began to shudder, the silk pooling around his waist. “Please, Hisoka,” he gasped, his dark eyes pressed tightly shut as he tried to process all he was feeling. “Please.” His eyes opened and he had no idea what he was begging for. He only knew that Hisoka could help him.

Hisoka resisted his pleas for a minute, maybe two, before dropping his pencil. “What do you need, Chrollo?” he asked, kneeling beside the chaise. Chrollo pulled him forward, his strength still enough to lift the man up and onto the lounge. “Tell me and I’ll give it to you.”

Chrollo keened, burying his face into Hisoka’s shoulder. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he moaned, rubbing himself against the silk, drowning in Hisoka’s warmth. “I feel so much; I don’t know what this is.”

He could feel Hisoka’s grin against his cheek and for the first time, Chrollo initiated their kiss. It wasn’t chaste, and it lacked the simple comfort of their usual kisses. It reminded him of the first time, when he had planned on draining Hisoka dry, when Hisoka had mistaken him for a prostitute out peddling his wares. The heat was dizzying like the drug pounding through his veins, and for the first time he could recall, Chrollo felt want. Desire.

It didn’t take much to entice Hisoka to touch him. Their feedings had always held a charge to it, one more for Hisoka and his thrill-seeking than for Chrollo’s need to consume. This time was different though as Chrollo touched back, encouraging Hisoka to touch in return. It was all too much, not enough, and Chrollo couldn’t stop the words pouring from his mouth.

“Take me,” he cried, rubbing his cheek against Hisoka’s. “Oh god, please. Hisoka, take me.”

There was silence. Hisoka inhaled sharply, his golden eyes going dark with lust. “Be certain of what you’re asking, Chrollo,” Hisoka breathed, pressing the words to Chrollo’s gasping lips. “I won’t make myself the pariah of society for anything less than your full dedication.” There was mirth in his voice, and it was teasing enough that Chrollo felt something snap.

Gone was his remaining patience. It simply vanished into thin air. He dug tight into Hisoka’s broad shoulders, flipping them so that he straddled Hisoka’s waist. “Don’t play with me, Hisoka,” he hissed, locking his knees hard around the hips already rolling, already seeking what Chrollo had begged for.

It was good enough a threat to make Hisoka stop playing. The artist tore away the silk sheet, throwing it to the floor before trailing his mouth down Chrollo’s pale chest. Against Hisoka’s burning skin, Chrollo’s eternal cold felt almost warm, reacting to every touch like it was the first he had felt. For all he could remember, it might have been exactly that.

They came together seamlessly, their bodies moving in tandem to the rhythm of Hisoka’s pounding heart. Chrollo let it carry him, letting the long dormant instinct out as he rode the pleasure. It was heady like feeding to completion, all-encompassing like draining bodies. Devastating like licking the still-hot blood from his lips to the sound of death rattles. Hisoka guided him with reverent hands and Chrollo burst from within when his fangs were again buried in the strong neck at his lips.

The drug was diluted in Hisoka’s blood, only giving a taste of what he had previously felt, but it left Chrollo glowing. They laid there on the chaise, Hisoka sighing in his satisfaction and cradling him close. His hot hands explored Chrollo’s pale body, taking in the form that had been the object of his obsession from the moment they had first met.

As the fingers traced his spine, the flickers of sunlight still licking down his skin, Chrollo thought to the life he now lived.

He had never felt so alive.

**Author's Note:**

> a bit different from my usual fare but i felt in the mood for a change. did you guys like it? i wouldn't be opposed to doing more from this universe as ive got it pretty fleshed out. let me know how you feel! check me out on tumblr (terminallydepraved) and send me some love. im always ecstatic to hear your thoughts!


End file.
